Even in the Best Families
by philomenia
Summary: 221b is accommodating an eleven-year old boarding school runaway. Neither John nor Sherlock are particularly pleased about this, especially considering that the boy is Sherlock's nephew. Crossover with the Nero Wolfe stories and based on the 1956 'theory' that the detective Nero Wolfe is Holmesian offspring.


_Even in the Best Families_

There was a child in the front room.

A dark-haired boy of about eleven years old, to be exact. He was sat at the dining table, bent over Sherlock's microscope, examining whatever ridiculous concoction had been left under the lens.

John almost dropped the shopping.

The boy started, dropping the pipette he'd been holding, and glared at John with a pair of pale, grey eyes, surprisingly ferocious in their intensity. John might have been intimidated, were the boy not wearing school uniform.

"Um…Who are you?" John said, trying not to appear as unnerved as he felt. From the way the boy titled his head, pupils refocusing, John supposed he had been unsuccessful.

Sherlock chose that moment to bound up the stairs. He paused briefly in the doorway, surveying the scene with a quick flicker of his pupils, before sighing jadedly as his gaze landed on the boy. In one elegant movement, he had unburdened John of the shopping bags and swept into the kitchen.

"What are you doing here, Nero?" he called over his shoulder as he dumped the bags on the table.

"I do wish you wouldn't call me that." The boy – _Nero_, apparently – said, rolling his eyes. His vowels were clipped, his diction perfect, his tone superior. That, combined with the silk tie that formed a part of his uniform, indicated a public school education. A _very_ good public school education, John deduced, as he stooped to pick up the straw boater that had been carelessly tossed on the floor. It had been soiled by the rain, which, John suspected, was the reason for its being discarded.

"You wish I wouldn't call you by your name?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but didn't seem at all surprised, "I repeat the question: what are you doing here?"

"Hiding." Nero replied curtly, bending back over the microscope.

"Come away from that, Nero." Sherlock said, gesticulating wildly with the milk he had just extracted from the shopping bag. "I'm in the middle of a very delicate experiment!"

"I didn't know you had an interest in floricultural biochemistry."

"I said, away!"

Nero stood, grumbling. John noted that he was unusually tall for his age; when that was taken into account with his neatly combed hair and pale eyes, the combination gave him an appearance so noticeably Holmesian that John felt a strangely nauseous sensation settling on his stomach. If it hadn't been for the roundness to Nero's features, the curve of his belly, the awkward slump to his shoulders and the absence of his flatmate's permanent pallor, John would've sworn he was looking at a young Sherlock.

"Um, Nero?" John spoke, partly due to the need to distract himself from the ridiculous assumptions he was making and partly because he was aware that he had neither spoken nor moved for far too long.

"Yes?" The boy turned that eerily familiar gaze upon him.

"Would you like something to drink? I was just going to make some tea." John gestured futilely at the kitchen. "I'm John, by the way."

"I know, Dr. Watson." Nero said, "Could I have coffee?"

"How old are you?"

"I will be twelve in nine months and three days. I can provide you with the requisite number of hours if you wish me to be precise?"

"You're getting tea."

Nero rolled his eyes again, throwing himself into Sherlock's chair with a recognisable air of melodrama.

As John moved into the kitchen, he noticed Sherlock had lost interest in unpacking the shopping after he had removed the milk, the bread and the beans, and was now drumming his long fingers against the table, staring at the boy.

"You can't hide here." He said, finally.

"This is the last place he would think to look!" Nero protested.

"Wrong! It's the first place he'll look."

"Then I'm hiding in plain sight!"

"No, you're being deliberately obtuse."

"Can we back up a moment please?" John interrupted, "Who is this boy? What is he doing here? Who is he hiding from? Is he a client? Is he a relative? Is he –"

"That's quite enough questions for the moment, thank you, John." Sherlock said, holding up a hand.

At that moment a loud click announced that the kettle had boiled. John, deciding it would be best all round if they each had tea to calm the situation, shuffled back towards the kettle, and poured out three cups. Sherlock sat himself down in John's chair, watching the boy with a thoughtful expression on his face. John quickly loaded up the tray with tea cups, milk and sugar, depositing it on the table.

"Nero is my nephew." Sherlock said without preamble, as he accepted the cup John proffered, "Nero Wolfe-Holmes. He's Mycroft's son."

John was glad he was about to sit down anyway, as the shock of finding out that Mycroft Holmes was a father was enough to make his knees buckle. Now Sherlock had said it, Nero did bear more of a resemblance to the elder Holmes. Perhaps it was because he was less angular than his uncle, or because he seemed calmer, quieter, stiller, less riotous. He had sunk into Sherlock's chair like it had been made for him, and showed no sign of wanting to move any time soon.

"Oh….so what's he doing here?" John said, noticing he'd spilled tea on his jumper due to his unduly rapid descent into the dining chair. He wiped at the wool with the palm of his hand, futilely hoping neither Holmes would notice.

"No idea. He's supposed to be at boarding school."

"It was boring." The youngest Holmes said with a huff, folding his arms across his chest.

"With that, I sympathise entirely." Sherlock conceded, "But I predict that you only have half an hour before Mycroft figures out where you are."

"Just long enough to do The Times crossword puzzle then." Nero said with a triumphant smile, scooping the aforementioned paper off the floor. John was certain that the particular newspaper had probably been on the floor for a while, as mildew was setting in around the corners. It didn't seem to bother Nero.

"Or you could make a run for it?" Sherlock suggested.

"I'd rather do the crossword." Nero sniffed, already filling in the answer to_ One, Across – 'Preserve exotic meal doctor's tucking into'_. "Unless…" he paused, pen nib hovering over the paper where he had scratched the letters '_EMBA..'_ in florid handwriting, "…you want to talk about why you have orchid pollen under your microscope?"

"No." Sherlock said absently, as he reached for his tea.

"Orchids are very interesting, actually. Did you know there's a species of orchid in Australia that grows entirely underground? Because it can't obtain energy from the sun, it grows – "

"It's for a case." Sherlock cut off his nephew, before the boy launched into what sounded like it might be a very long monologue.

"Don't you have any outside interests?" Nero said, with a sigh.

"I have my violin." Sherlock said, actually looking slightly affronted.

"Music is barbarous." Nero replied, returning to his crossword.

The minutes trickled by in silence, as both Sherlock and John sipped at their tea and Nero raced through the crossword. The boy had taken one sip of his tea, made a face, muttered something about pasteurisation, and left the contents of the cup to cool. Just as the silence started to become comfortable, Sherlock's phone chimed, shattering it.

"Ah." Sherlock said, reading the text, "It seems, Nero, that your mother and father are on their way here now. My brother has been rather quick off the mark these days."

Nero made some small grumblings noises, but did not move from the chair. If he was avoiding his father, John thought, he wasn't doing a very good job of it. And…wait a minute.

"Who is Nero's mother?"

"Oh, John, don't be dense." Sherlock said, making the face he made whenever John said something particularly obvious. John gave an irritated sigh, but resolved to continue his line of questioning.

"What? Stop it with the face. What have I not understood?"

"Clearly, Nero's mother is Mycroft's wife."

"Obviously." Nero added, without looking up from the newspaper, "I am disappointed, Dr. Watson. I had not taken you for being so dull of mind."

"Mycoft's wife…Mycroft's _married_?"

"Yes, John." Sherlock was looking at him in confusion, "I thought you'd met Juno several times? She escorts you whenever my brother decides to kidnap you…"

"…Juno?"

"Yes, Juno. Juno Wolfe? She works for my brother?"

"You don't mean…You mean, _Anthea_?"

"Heh." Nero smiled broadly at that, momentarily abandoning the crossword to survey the scene before him, "Mama is about as fond of given names as I am."

"Hmm. I did wonder where you picked up that little eccentricity." Sherlock said to his nephew, before turning to John, "And yes, if you've been flirting with Juno – and I know you have going by how red your face is and your present difficulty breathing – then she will have informed my brother. No doubt Mycroft found it amusing."

John vaguely hoped that the structural integrity of the flat had been compromised by Sherlock's incessant destructive habits, and that he might fall through the floor. He might break a couple of bones, but at least then he could hide with Mrs Hudson and not have to deal with a flat full of Holmeses. Unfortunately, the floorboards seemed as sturdy as ever.

Just then they heard the door of 221b swing open then, moments later, slam shut. Then there was the clatter of a woman's heels on the stairs, followed by the tap of what could only be an umbrella. The three of them turned towards the door as Mycroft and Anthea walked through it.

Now Sherlock had mentioned it, it seemed obvious that Mycroft was involved with his inscrutable assistant. Their movements were perfectly harmonised as they entered the room, Anthea moving fluidly to hold the door open for the elder Holmes, in a natural manner that only people deeply intimate with one another can attain. Even their ensembles seemed co-ordinated, both dressed in the same navy wool, the red silk of Mycroft's pocket square matching Anthea's lipstick.

"Good afternoon, Nero." Mycroft crossed the room in three long strides, planting his umbrella by his son's feet. His face was a carefully schooled mask of concern, but even John could tell Mycroft was internally amused by the events.

"Papa." For the first time, Nero's expression of confidence faltered.

"It's not like you to run away from school. You're usually so in favour of learning. And who is taking care of your orchid?"

"I concede the necessity; I just don't want to go back to Harrow." Nero shifted in his seat, unable to meet his father's steely gaze.

"Yes, Mycroft, why did you send your progeny to Harrow?" Sherlock said, acidly, "You hated Harrow. I hated Harrow."

"Of course you two went to public school." John groaned into his sleeve.

"As I recall, you were expelled after six months." Mycroft replied to Sherlock, through his teeth.

"I would regard that as an option, Nero." Sherlock said, peering round his brother to address his nephew.

"Kindly do not give advice to my son." Anthea said crisply, eyes still focused on her ever-present Blackberry. Her eyes flashed and, for a moment, John saw the formidable woman that lay under that placid, tailored exterior.

"My point, "Sherlock continued, undeterred, "is that the both of us had a terrible time, so why you would visit that upon your only son is beyond me."

Mycroft gave his brother an icy glare, but did not reply. Mycroft's silence, John had learned a long time ago, was the closest he could get to an admission of wrong-doing. Anthea finally looked up from her phone, focussing her gaze on her son.

"Nero, I would like an explanation."

"I don't like it." Nero said, dropping his gaze and squirming. Suddenly he seemed very small.

"There must be something you like about school? Your friends, at least?" John said. He was gratified that he could look at Nero and still see an uncertain boy, instead of the mighty Holmesian intellect that made Sherlock and Mycroft so impervious and remote.

"I suppose there's Goodwin. He thinks you're very impressive, Uncle." Nero said, "He keeps one of your press clippings above his desk."

"Not the hat photograph!" Sherlock near growled, expression aghast.

"Yes." Nero replied with a shrug, "But the fact remains that I have no desire to return."

"Your schooling is unavoidable, and neither I nor your mother can spare the time to attend to it ourselves."

"Perhaps Uncle Sherlock –"

"_NO!_" Both Mycroft and Anthea shouted in unison, with the air of beleaguered parents who had shot down this idea before.

"Perhaps somewhere aboard would provide more of a distraction for you?" Anthea said, carefully, attention focussed more on her husband than her son.

"Abroad?" Mycroft seemed to flinch.

"Well, he was born when we were in Montenegro." Anthea mused, returning her concentration to her phone.

"You really shouldn't have been flying so late in your pregnancy." Mycroft replied absently.

"What were you even doing in Montenegro, anyway?" John asked, feelings of Holmes-induced exasperation rising.

Mycroft and Anthea offered him twin smiles; both equally mirthless, both equally designed to conceal. They smiled like snakes. John decided not to ask again.

"And give him Montenegrin, Serbian, Bosnian, Albanian and Croatian to learn, and that's sure to keep him from getting bored for a while." Sherlock chimed in.

"I would be amenable to this." Nero said.

"At least think it over, Mycroft." Anthea said, voice softening.

"See out the term and I'll make some calls." Mycroft said, using the same tone of concerned condescension he used when addressing his younger brother. His expression was taught with worry for a moment, before he got it back under control.

Anthea extended her hand towards the boy. Nero appeared to think over what his father was offering for a moment, before nodding and rising, ignoring his mother's proffered hand. Anthea did not seem at all surprised by this aversion to physical contact.

"You didn't want to go back to school a minute ago!" John rolled his eyes.

"When confronted with omniscience, I bow." Nero said with a shrug, before allowing his mother lead him down the stairs. Mycroft watched them leave, almost smiling.

"You've raised a good boy, there." Sherlock said to his brother as he settled himself in his recently vacated chair, "I wonder how that happened."

"Yes, we're immensely proud." Mycroft replied without rising to the barb.

"No doubt he'll have an office next to yours by the time he's twenty-five." Sherlock sneered.

"Oh, I rather doubt it." Mycroft's habitually cold eyes were suddenly full of light, "Nero wants to be a private detective when he grows up."

Sherlock, suddenly rendered mute, stared up at his brother. Mycroft offered him a smile – one that was quite warm and genuine, and made the older man's face seem so young – before strolling out of the room to join his family downstairs, swinging his umbrella as he went.

"Looks like you're going to have some competition." John grinned as he reclaimed his own armchair.

By way of reply, Sherlock got his violin out of its case, played it tunelessly and refused to speak for three hours.


End file.
